


Everything's All Right, Yes

by shellebelle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellebelle/pseuds/shellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Disciple just wants to ease his mind...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's All Right, Yes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for the [kink meme](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/10240.html?thread=17383680#t17383680).
> 
> Title and end lyrics are from "Everything's All right, yes" from Jesus Christ Superstar and I am a big old geek. :)

==>be the disciple

When you return from hunting, you see the Signless’ caretaker standing some ways away from where their camp is, gazing down at the lone figure of the prophet. You look at him, staring into the cooking fire. His shoulders are hunched over and he has his head in his hands. You’ve seen him like this before. He isn’t seeing the fire, not really. He’s seeing the visions he sees. The ones he tells the people about, and the ones he tells no one.

Your brow furrows as you come up to his caretaker, who always looks worried. “What is it?” Though you know already. And her next words just confirm it.

“Things just weigh on him so,” she says in that gentle voice she has. “His burdens are too heavy for just one person.”

“He needs rest,” you say softly, and without another word, you head off into your tent, which is a little ways from the others. You have slowly made your way into a trusted circle, but you always remind yourself of how much is at stake for him. For all of them. The last thing you want to do is make a misstep. The trust has been hard won, and you do not want to lose it.

The Signless is your destiny, and you know it. You feel for him so much more than moirailship or even, perhaps, matespritship. You don’t know what it is, but it’s a very big feeling. You’ve been waiting for it all your life.

You’ve studied and memorized his words for months, recording them in your book, followed him when you weren’t truly welcome, but you were persistent. The first time the Signless touched your shoulder and said you could stay by the fire, and his caretaker gave you a welcoming smile, you knew that you’d come home.

Inside your tent, you prepare things. If there is one thing that being a huntress all of your life has taught you, it’s to be prepared.

And then, you go back outside to sit next to the prophet. You sit next to him quietly for some time. He doesn’t seem to take notice of you but you know that he does. And then, softly...

You crawl over to him and gently nuzzle your nose against his, rubbing your face until your nose is at his temple, and breathe in softly.

He startles from his reverie and snorts, a small, bitter sound. “Gah, what the fuck--!”

You purr. You breathe in his scent, the smell of him, of his blood, grown so familiar now with close proximity. “You needed a nuzzle,” you whisper, rubbing your cheek against his hair. “Come with me.”

He pulls away to look at you, his face full of confusion--a rare thing, and so you save that to remember later. You confused the prophet. You look at him right back and call him by his given name. And then, delicately, you push your nose against his, and then brush the tip of your tongue over his upper lip. “Come with me.”

You get up and turn to go into your tent, and after a moment, he follows you. Once he is inside your tent, you turn to him and tell him to sit, which he does, and you bring over a basin and kneel in front of him. You can tell he’s going to ask a question, but you lay your fingers over his mouth and shoosh him.

The ointment you make is good for frayed nerves and aching muscles. You want to comfort him and ease his worried mind. You take his hood off, and start at the base of his horns, where there are a cluster of nerve endings and stress points. The ointment smells soft and sweet, almost like sopor but not quite.

He groans softly, leaning into your touch. “Oh, shi--” It’s obvious that he’s at least as inexperienced as you are, which is somewhat of a relief.

“Shooshhh.” You set about disrobing him, wondering at your own forwardness. Your coated fingers move towards his temples and he closes his eyes, and there’s a wordless sigh, little louder than a breath. You lean your forehead against his. He begins to say your name, but you shake your head.

“Everything’s all right.”

You dip your fingers again, find each shoulder. You can feel the knots release beneath your fingers. You slide his tunic over his head, then move your hands to his elbows and wrists, kissing the places where his pulse thrums beneath the skin.

You stay facing him as you embrace him to stoke a line of ointment down his spine, making tiny circles with your fingers. He leans forward and captures your mouth with his, and your hands momentarily still as you forget yourself.

You touch his face and pull gently away.

“What the--”

“Shoosh.” For once, you do not wish for him to speak.

You help him off with his boots and trousers, and dip your fingers again, for hips, for knees. You spend a good amount of time on his feet, and that teases a groan of satisfaction out of his mouth. So many perigees of walking...so many sleepless night.

It hadn’t really occurred to you to be nervous before, at least not until you stop rubbing and go to set the liniment aside--and then suddenly, he is right there in front of you, his eyes and cheeks bright.

You had started things, a simple pale exercise, soothing him, relaxing him, but now, as usual, it was becoming flushed. You feel your heart slam into a quicker pace, and a sharp flare of heat as he starts to unfasten your shirt.

You haven’t gone this far before, and instead of trying to figure out precisely what you are, he doesn’t seem to want to define it. Nor do you.

His fingers tease over your various scars from hunting on your own for so many sweeps, over your ribcage and collarbone. He makes a face at the large scar on your shoulder, then bends to kiss it.

When your breath catches in your throat, you can feel the curve of his mouth as he smiles against your skin. His hands are shaking when he slips the shirt from your shoulders. He hasn’t spoken again, but asks wordlessly with his hands to help you get your pants off, and you are both trembling and wide-eyed and uncertain, really, of what you both are doing.

He holds you close and cards his fingers through your tangled hair, buries his face in it, breathing in. “Is it all right? Really?” The doubt in his voice hurts you deeply.

“Yes, it is.” For everything, it is. You rub your face against his temple again, making a small soft sound, and tease at his neck with your tongue. He turns his head so he can see your eyes and you can see his. Gently, you slip your hand down to his bone-bulge and stroke tentatively. His fingers tighten in your hair and you don’t take your eyes off of each other.

He makes a soft sound and reaches for you, and when he touches you, your blood pusher seems to want to make it’s way right out of your ribcage. Your body is flushed and warm, and so is his. You can feel him move against your hand and you feel yourself do the same.

You push closer, entranced by the sounds of the two of you breathing.

You’re nervous, though not enough to slow things down. You know a little of what you’ll feel because all kids explore themselves at one point or another. You know that you act on instinct, and your bulge will latch on to whatever presents itself. You know this intellectually, but you were not prepared for the feeling of being with another person.

You haven’t stopped looking at him and he hasn’t stopped looking at you. He looks nervous, scared for the few moments before your bulges wrap around each other, the tendrils looking for spaces, for other tendrils, for your respective nooks, and when everything is woven together, lined up, everything squeezes and you are entwined, you are with each other in perfect symmetry.

You’ve both been pretty quiet up till now but you can’t be silent anymore, and your stomach goes weak and can’t hold the sitting position you’re in anymore, either. You fall back, bringing him down on top of you, and you land on your back, your breath huffing out of you. He catches himself before he falls on you and for a moment, he looks like he’s about to laugh.

But then that slow writhe-and-squeeze happens again and you clutch at him hard, every part of you wrapping tight around him, as much of him as you can hold. He finds your mouth, kisses you desperately, and neither of you are careful. You can taste the salt-sweet of blood in your mouth. You keen and rock your hips up against him, and he pins your wrists above your head.

Things are getting at once slippery and more sensitive, you could see red-green-red painting your belly if you could tear yourself away from his eyes. You struggle with him, wanting him to feel good, wanting him to climax. Your body strains against his, you’re strong but he’s marginally stronger. And then he _growls_ and it goes straight to whatever pleasure center is in charge of this, and you make a sound in return, a high chirping whine, and you know that one more little thing is going to send you over the edge.

That’s when you feel his tongue soft over the curve of your neck and shoulder and his voice saying your name in your ear, and you come so _hard_ , and everything is tight and clenched around him and you, his name in broken syllables on your tongue and your lips against his skin and his hands fisted in your hair and your blood pusher is claiming him with every chant-beat: _yes, mine, yes, mine, yes, mine, mine, mine..._

You dimly register that his body is reacting as you are beginning to calm. He cries out against your mouth and tenses around you and you just want to cling to him as close as possible for as long as possible.

You are still looking at him, and he is still looking at you. Your bodies start to relax and he eases to your side, leaning on one hand, looking down at you. You looking up at him.

You don’t know what to say, because _pity_ is not accurate. It is not accurate at all.

It’s bigger than pity, bigger than hate and bigger than anything pale or ashen and you don’t know what it is.

He settles down beside you, and you are both messy with sex and sweat and there are tears in your eyes. He rubs his thumb over your cheek. It’s clear that he can’t figure out what quadrant you’re in, either. You can read the questions on his face as clearly as if he’d spoken them.

And then he shrugs, and kisses you, and pulls up a blanket to cover you. “You’re _mine,_ ” he said softly, and something settled soft and contented in your belly. You curl up next to him and go to sleep.

Cleaning up can wait.  


  
_Sleep and I shall soothe you, calm you, and anoint you.  
Myrrh for your hot forehead, oh.  
Then you'll feel  
Everything's alright, yes, everything's fine.  
And it's cool, and the ointment's sweet  
For the fire in your head and feet.  
Close your eyes, close your eyes  
And relax, think of nothing tonight.  
_   



End file.
